


Blissful Ignorance

by enchantedteapot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Broken Engagement, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Knockturn Alley, Minor Violence, Post-Hogwarts, Potions, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enchantedteapot/pseuds/enchantedteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His world in ruin, robbed of pride and fortune. Zacharias is plagued by the memories of a life that never came to be and the promise of a solution, that lies at the bottom of a tiny black bottle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blissful Ignorance

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for livejournal's Interhouse Fest 2011. Based on song prompt: Inara George - 'Fools in love'

There is a bitter chill to the air the night that Zacharias Smith pays his very first visit to Borgin & Burke’s. His hands are forced deep within the pockets of his heavy black coat, the collar pulled high around his unusually sallow cheeks and he walks quickly, resolutely- boots slapping over wet cobbles as he veers, unwatched, onto Knockturn Alley.  
  
Even here it is mostly deserted- too late in the year, he supposes, for the usual after-dark trading. An old hag cat-calls him from an open doorway, a crumpled figure extends a begging hand from the pavement edge but he presses on undeterred, skirting beneath the low-hanging archways, his shoulders hunched as he hurries through shadows.  
  
The shop at 13B creeps out of the darkness, an eerie gas-light glow beckoning him forward like a desperate moth to the unsavoury flame. He doesn’t bother to stop, to think or consider his actions, for it is far too late for any of that. This is already his last resort. Nowhere else can Zacharias get the help he so badly needs; no one else has the power to rid him of his demons. And so he sets his jaw, determinedly, and steps inside.  
  
The shop itself is quiet. The counter has been closed down for the night and neither proprietor is anywhere to be seen. The air is heavy with dust and the faint smell of damp, floorboards creak as he shifts his weight, moving cautiously between shelves of gruesome trinkets. A set of gilded knives glints in the dim light, whilst strange clocks with no faces tick out of time with one another and a blood-stained Turkish rug hangs ominously from the ceiling. There are ceremonial masks, their faces cracked and fading, cases full of tarnished gold jewellery, stained potion vials and a grotesque two-headed peacock, overstuffed and glassy-eyed, that judges him from across the room. It is all just how he imagined: a refuge for forgotten lives, a graveyard for the physical reminders of paths that should never have been trodden. And now he is here to add to the collection.  
  
He pauses by an ornate, speckled mirror, his reflection staring back at him through a layer of dust. He barely recognises this weary stranger, all dark rimmed eyes and pale, unshaven skin. Youthful exuberance has been lost before its time, the casual air of superiority replaced by a defeated resignation, which has grown, like moss, over every inch of him. He can see it in his shoulders, slumped and exhausted, in the grim and despondent set of his mouth -Circe- even his hair, once tamed and coiffed, is now dark and matted and neglected.  
  
Zacharias Smith, once the progeny of a comfortable, cared-for existence has been reduced to this- this lost, pathetic creature, already so far out of his depth, searching for something he shouldn’t be.  
  
“We’re closed.”  
  
He nearly jumps out of his skin at the deep growl of Caractacus Burke, who has emerged from the gloom and is watching him menacingly, his thick, dark eyebrows knitted into a scowl. His face is leathery like the grisly amputated fingers he holds in a jar and his hair falls in grey, wispy strands over blotched skin. Zacharias must fight the urge to shudder.  
  
“My apologies,” he croaks, mouth suddenly dry. “But I have business I thought best suited to after-hours.”  
  
Burke eyes him warily and sniffs the air. “No trading past dark, we all have our curfews now.”  
  
Zacharias recognises his resistance for suspicion. It may have been five years since the War, but many merchants and establishments such as this are still within the grip of Ministry reforms. A business man can never be too careful, especially if one is known to have had dealings with Death Eaters in the past.  
  
“I’m not selling, or buying,” Zacharias steps toward the counter. “I have need of…other services.”  
  
Burke shuffles to replace the jar within a filthy glass cabinet. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grunts.  
  
“I have money. However much it takes.” He throws a heavy velvet pouch across the counter- followed by a second, and a third.  
  
Burke’s interest is evidently piqued. He turns to survey the young man carefully, one gnarled tooth chewing on a dry lip as he takes in the unkempt dirty blond hair, the tailored cut of his crumpled robes. After a moment, Burke steps forward, picking up one of the bagfuls of galleons and weighing it in his palm. Zacharias watches nervously, fully aware that if this ghastly old man should refuse him, he has nothing and nowhere left to turn.  
  
“Exactly what is it that you would be requiring of us, Sir?” Burke asks, at last, apparently satisfied.  
  
But Zacharias cannot relax just yet. “I’ve heard stories…” he starts carefully. “People come to you when they need help, shall we say, _forgetting_.”  
  
Burke’s eyes narrow. “Stories are a dangerous thing, Sir.”  
  
“I’ve done the research, I know it exists and-” He fixes the old man with an unwavering stare. “I know you can brew it.”  
  
“And now what might ‘it’ be, exactly?”  
  
Zacharias steels himself. “ _Felix Ignoratia_ … Blissful Ignorance.”  
  
Burke is well-trained; he gives nothing away. He doesn’t flinch or seem surprised, but simply returns Zacharias’ stare-- silently calculating, silently evaluating until he leans forward across the grimy counter-top, his lined face falling into the strip of light cast by the flickering street-lamp outside.  
  
“What’s your name, boy?”  
  
“Smith,”  
  
“As in Hepzibah? Blood-line of Hufflepuff?” he practically barks the names at him and Zacharias gets the feeling that, within the confines of these walls, there is still such a thing as a wrong answer to that question.  
  
“So I’m told.”  
  
Burke grunts, nodding slowly. “It’s a long time since anyone’s come asking for that. Had a lot of them before the trials, mind.”  
  
Zacharias knows all about that, he really has done his research. He may be a shadow of his former self but he’s no fool- he wasn’t about to go experimenting with highly illegal, highly complex potions with first acquiring a little basic knowledge.  
  
It hadn’t been easy though. Felix Ignoratia counts the like of Horcruxes and the Unforgiveables amongst its fellows, banned completely from texts and teachings for fear of its misuse. An elixir that renders upon the consumer complete and irreparable amnesia, and, if brewed incorrectly -which so many of these delicate potions are- total loss of cognitive function. The heart still beats but the mind ceases to exist. Yes, he supposes he can see the danger of a vial or two falling into the wrong hands.  
  
But he had followed the clues - records of war criminals suddenly having no recollection of theirs or others’ lives. Foul magic at work, obviously, but certainly no memory charm that any degree of interrogation or torture could break. An unaccountable, unexplainable event and Zacharias - ever loyal to the pursuit of his own self-serving causes - has finally traced it to the source: Borgin & Burke’s, purveyors of dark magic and other dangerous artefacts. Rather a fitting home, he thinks.  
  
“So,” Burke eyes him with a nasty smirk, “the question is, boy, what crime are you guilty of remembering?”  
  
Zacharias’ eyes flash momentarily but he’s long since given up reprimanding anyone but himself. “It isn’t like that,” he mutters. “I’m just someone who would rather forget, is all.”  
  
“You’re going to have to be a little more forthcoming than that if you want my help. Every potion master needs a little insurance, after all.” He offers him another yellow-toothed sneer.  
  
“You _can_ do it then?”  
  
Burke chuckles darkly. “It’s going to cost you. Double this and then some.” He has already snatched up the three velvet purses. “And it takes time, I’ll have to source half the ingredients at least, and the preparation alone-”  
  
“How long?”  
  
Burke’s eyes narrow and, not for the first time that evening, Zacharias gets the impression that this man can read his very soul like scrap parchment.  
  
“Two weeks.”  
  
“I need it sooner.”  
  
“I don’t control the physics of these things, boy,” the older man growls. “Rush this potion and you wrap the noose around your neck. If you’re lucky, you make it too weak, leave yourself with half a memory and drive yourself mad trying to piece it back together. Too strong and, well, you might as well offer yourself up for a Dementor’s Kiss.”  
  
Zacharias ignores the uneasy shiver that creeps along his spine and grits his teeth. “I need it _sooner_ ,” he repeats, slowly.  
  
The murderous scowl Burke offers him is enough to make Zacharias fear he has over-stepped the mark but then he notices the watery gaze drift over the gold, crested signet ring on his right hand - a Smith family heirloom and an undoubtedly priceless piece of pureblood memorabilia.

  
Burke sniffs the air. “Three days, _if_ you’re willing to part with-”  
  
The ring has been tossed across the counter before he can even finish the sentence.  
  
It isn’t until Zacharias steps back out into the cold, robes already pulled high around his face, and having made arrangements to return to the shop in due course for the finished potion, that Burke again asks that all-important question.  
  
“What happened to you then, ey?” he calls, catching the young man in the open doorway. “What was so terrible that you’re going to risk your soul to forget it?”  
  
Zacharias stares out into the dark, the cold air raw against his thin cheeks. “I fell in love with a fool,” he mutters quietly, his breath swirling in mists before him, “and she made one out of me in return.”

* * *

  
  
_It is a cold, rainy day in November. A chilling breeze is carried along the Rue Saint-Honoré, rolling up under shop awnings and tearing the autumn leaves from skeleton-like branches._

_Zacharias waits at the north end of the street, sheltering from the rain beneath a large black umbrella, his cashmere scarf wrapped tightly beneath his chin. He is in a good mood, despite the miserable weather- tired, yes, but on a high from a hard won victory in the boardroom. The trip has been a success and he will go home a wealthier man. Oh yes, he’s in a very good mood, indeed.  
  
He turns, as if on instinct, to watch the young woman now crossing the road toward him. She hurries through the drizzle, swaths of glossy black hair spilling over the collar of her vintage Mac as she dances around murky puddles and light traffic.  
  
Astoria.  
  
Merlin, but she’s beautiful- all porcelain skin and pink bow-lips, deep emerald eyes that simmer brightly on an otherwise grey afternoon. There is a simple elegance to her stride, as if each step has been pre-planned and executed to perfection, slender fingers outstretched as if to catch at the wind. Even after all this time, Zacharias still finds himself transfixed by her.  
  
Astoria’s stare locks with his as she reaches the pavement and Zacharias cannot help the indulgent smile that erupts across his face as she steps towards him, ducking beneath the umbrella to stand on her toes and dust a feathery kiss across a clean-shaven cheek.  
  
But Zacharias thinks he can do one better and swiftly turns his head, capturing that delicate smile between his lips. She starts at first, but he wears her down, eliciting a contented sigh –he’s not sure from which party- as he weaves an arm tightly around her waist.  
  
Eventually, she leans away and looks up, eyes bright and cheeks rosy. “How was brunch?”  
  
“Successful,” he nods, his nose brushing hers, breathing in the familiar scent of jasmine with top notes of freesia. “We managed to secure a fairly high bid for the European trade route. I think my grandfather should be very pleased. And your day?”  
  
She smiles then, her entire face alighting in child-like excitement. “They were showing the Rembrandt collection again. I must have been through the Louvre a hundred times, but his are still my favourites. I wish you would come with me, just the once.”  
  
“Merlin, no!” he laughs. “Your unfathomable affection for their art is something I’m afraid we’ll never share. No, I can’t tell my Raphaelites from my Romantics, I suspect you’re better off alone.”  
  
She sighs disappointedly, then. “I suppose so.”  
  
He takes her arm in his as they turn and head in the direction of the nearest Floo point, the steady patter of rain against the umbrella filling the otherwise comfortable silence. Astoria rests her head against his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck as she points out the various Père Noël’s in shop windows and reminisces about Christmases past. Together, they are the picture of romance, strolling hand in hand through the autumnal streets of Paris, their steps perfectly in time despite her smaller stride. Zacharias makes a mental note to get his grandmother’s ring re-sized the moment they return to England.  
  
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she murmurs at last, sculpted eyebrows pulled into a delicate frown. “I know you said you couldn’t make it to dinner next weekend, but I was rather hoping you might reconsider-”  
  
“Darling, we’ve been through this.” Zacharias cannot disguise the hint of frustration that leaks into his voice. This in an argument fought many times before. “I’ve already given Entwhistle my word; it is the man’s stag do, after all.”  
  
“Yes, but I thought, seeing as how you’d already been to his first two-”  
  
“I’m sorry, darling-”  
  
“And I’m afraid it’s shaping up to be something of a couples evening; my sister and Blaise, the Patils' and their fiancés - and I just know that if I go alone, I’ll end up sat with that awful Malfoy man-”  
  
“Astoria, I said no!” They stop so abruptly that she stumbles slightly, her dapple green eyes widening, his own jaw tensing as he stares down his nose at her crossly. “I don’t know how I could’ve been any clearer about this when you asked me the first time. I cannot and will not be attending this blasted dinner.”  
  
Those pretty pink lips form a startled ‘oh’. “But… Mother has already planned to introduce you.”  
  
“Well, that’s her own damn fault, isn’t it!” He catches himself just a moment too late and curses through gritted teeth, avoiding the look of hurt that flitters across her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” He sighs heavily. “Please send your mother my apologies, but I really cannot make her dinner party. Now, please, let’s not talk about this anymore?”  
  
They continue their stroll under a heavy cloud. The scenery and festive window displays have lost their charm and they walk briskly, their steps now woefully out of time with one another, Astoria hiding her face in her silk scarf.  
  
Zacharias ploughs on gloomily, his mood soured so that it resembles the weather.  
  
He is completely unaware that he has already lost the game. _

 

* * *

 

The next seventy-two hours prove to be the longest that Zacharias can ever remember. He languishes behind moth-eaten curtains in a rented room above The Leaky Cauldron, pacing the greying carpet to threads and drifting in and out of fitful sleep as he watches sunrise become sunset and over again, twofold.  
  
It may have taken him months to reach this point but that does not mean he has no reservations about what is to come. _Felix Ignoratia_ is a dangerous potion, the intricate science of which is fully understood by no-one, the associated risks: unimaginable. And he has made himself vulnerable, he knows that – entrusting his fate into the hands of a character like Caractacus Burke. He doubts any man would feel at ease in such a position, even one with a greater propensity for courage than he himself may have shown in the past.  
  
But despite these misgivings, there is a greater fear that will ensure Zacharias returns to Knockturn Alley three days later, that of the fate that should await him if this plan were to fail. For he can no longer live in this state of perpetual half-life, driving himself to ruin, throwing his livelihood away piece by piece into the gutter. His family have disowned him, his fortune dwindled to a handful of sickles, his sanity- well, that was probably the first thing to go- and now he has nothing more to give.  
  
And yet, she still lives behind his eyes. Each hidden smile, each touch, each fleeting glance is played out over and over again for his own torturous pleasure.  
  
Astoria. The name itself brings with it a hot stab of… _something_. The ever-present lines of hurt, fury and desire have become blurred by the same drink that grants him sleep at night. Soul-searching in too deep a glass, till he can barely recall the colour of her dress the first night they met, the sound of his own name whispered through parted lips or the shade of her lipstick on another man’s cheek.  
  
The first bullets of rain against the window save Zacharias from an unhealthy train of thought and, unclenching his taut fists, he searches for the clock. Time cannot pass quickly enough. He must be rid of her.

* * *

  
  
_The ball is not really to his taste. It’s all a little too obvious- the family crests interlaced above the mantelpiece, the golden cherub standing sentinel in the middle of the hors d’oeuvres. He supposes he shouldn’t complain, however, not when the in-laws are paying.  
  
He is holding court out on the balcony, chatting Quidditch with some of his old team mates and rivals behind a haze of cigar smoke. Astoria is doing the rounds inside, no doubt showing off his grandmother’s ring to appreciative female relatives and being fussed over by her sister.  
  
“No, no, Davies. You were good, granted, but you’re just one man! We had the more solid team by far,” his old housemate, Preece, grins, giving Zacharias a conspiratorial clap on the shoulder.  
  
“And I suppose that’ll be why you failed to ever take the Cup, in our entire years of schooling?”  
  
The group breaks out in cries of admonishment and good-natured jeers and Zacharias laughs along with them, sipping contentedly at a glass of vintage scotch. He cannot help but feel smug- the evening is undoubtedly a success. He has no idea why Astoria was so against a formal engagement party but, luckily, he and her parents managed to talk her round. She can be such a funny little thing sometimes.  
  
He would be lying if he said he were blind to his peers’ obvious jealousy, badly disguised amongst the handshakes and words of congratulations. Not that Zacharias can blame them, mind you. He doesn’t think it speaks too badly of his own ego to acknowledge that he has indeed had a very good year. The business is going well, the new trade routes generating enough interest to warrant a permanent office in Geneva, which he suspects his grandfather has him ear-marked to manage. In fact, he’s already picked out a winter chalet in the Alps to surprise Astoria with - an early wedding gift, of sorts.  
  
And then, of course, there is his bride-to-be herself. She looks magnificent tonight, unquestionably the most divine creature in the room. The looks she has been receiving from most of the other male guests would usually have had him boiling beneath the collar, but tonight all he can feel is pride. She is his, after all, and now the world knows it.  
  
Excusing himself from the group, he heads back inside the house. He imagines it’s time for the hosts to take their first dance together, and –not that he’d admit it to the likes of Preece or Davies- he hasn’t seen her in a while and finds that he rather misses that coy, little smile.  
  
Smoothing down the lapels of his brand new dress robes, he pauses for a refresher at the bar, flagging down Daphne as she attempts to coax Zabini out onto the floor. She hasn’t seen her sister either, it seems, and waves him off in the direction of the library.  
  
He makes slow progress, the Greengrass home is like many of the old families’ estates, a warren of corridors and corners to lose oneself in, and he is about to double back –perhaps she has returned to the hall by now, anyway- when he hears the hushed voices up ahead.  
  
He hesitates, although he’s not really sure why, something worryingly familiar about the whispers carrying towards his prying ears. Peering into the dimly lit alcove, he can just make out the profiles of the secluded pair and he frowns, confused and unsettled by the scene in front of him.  
  
His fiancé – delicate, sweet-natured and loving Astoria – appears to have been backed into a shadowy corner by none other than Draco bloody Malfoy.  
  
From this distance, Zacharias cannot make out their conversation. The words Astoria is mouthing, fast and nervous, are lost into the ether. He can, however, see just how very close they are standing, the blazing look that the other man has fixed upon her and the way her small hand is trembling by her side.  
  
Zacharias watches, motionless, as Malfoy brushes a pale hand over her elbow, ghosting up her bare arm to the curve of her neck. Her entire body seems to shiver, in a way that doesn’t appear wholly unpleasant.  
  
“Astoria! There you are!”  
  
He barely recognises his own voice, all tight and high and strained. Astoria whirls around, layers of chiffon snapping at her heels as Malfoy visibly flinches, his eyes narrowed as he peers through the gloom.  
  
“Darling!” she stutters weakly, wide eyed and pale. “I was just showing Mr Malfoy the new Palma Vecchio, my father’s latest acquisition.” She makes a vague gesture towards the painting behind them.  
  
Zacharias walks slowly towards the pair, coiling a firm arm around Astoria’s waist and pulling her flush against his side, fixing the blond with a dark and questioning scowl. “I wouldn’t have had you down as a Muggle art enthusiast, Malfoy?”  
  
“On the contrary,” the other man mutters, evenly returning the stare. “My family has been lucky enough to make donations to a number of different institutions over the years. My mother is particularly fond of the National Gallery.”  
  
“Is she now?” Zacharias does not attempt to keep the edge from his voice and he feels Astoria tense beside him. Draco discreetly wipes a smudge of something pink from the corner of his mouth.  
  
“I suppose we should head back to the ball…” She tries to distract his attention then, lacing her fingers through his and squeezing his hand, offering him a small smile that does not quite reach those glassy sea-green eyes.  
  
Zacharias chooses to ignore her. “I was sorry to hear the Wizengamot had ruled against overturning your curfew, Malfoy. I suppose that means you’ll be deserting us early this evening?”  
  
Touché. Draco’s eyes narrow at the not-so-subtle challenge. “Thank you for reminding me, Smith. I should indeed be thinking about taking my leave.”  
  
“I trust you can see yourself out?”  
  
“Certainly, and do accept my congratulations. I wish you both… every happiness.”  
  
Of course, from that point on, his evening is ruined; unable, as he is, to shake the icy shard of dread that has settled between his shoulder blades. The music is lost to his unhearing ears, champagne tastes bitter in his mouth and when he leads his bride-to-be in an opening waltz, he sees only Draco Malfoy, smirking at him incessantly from within the watching crowd._

* * *

  
  
The small, black vial sits neatly in the palm of his hand.  
  
The glass is cool against his clammy skin, the contents dark and churning as he tips the crystal bottle gently between bony fingers. He is staring at his own dissolution; two fluid ounces of complete obliteration. It is both a powerful and humbling sensation.  
  
A purse full of galleons sits on the bedside table beside a scrap of parchment bearing the time and location of a portkey to Venice. A contingency plan, should any part of him survive this. He will be a stranger unto himself - his life so far, even his very name forgotten, to never be recalled. The thought brings with it a strange blanket of calm.  
  
Burke had wished him luck as he handed over the single vial, the potion within glinting with all its whispered promise. But Zacharias knows that chance will not be on his side tonight. Has it ever?  
  
He finds himself wondering – not for the first time since this lunatic’s quest began – if all of this is truly worth it. The risks, the undeniable danger; wouldn’t a memory charm just be so much simpler? But, of course, he grimaces, he has tried that before, countless times, and still found himself here. A memory charm can always be broken and, when it comes to Astoria, he has always found a way to remember.  
  
With a steady hand, he slides a worn photograph from his robe pocket. The edges are tattered, the corners singed from past attempts at destruction but the picture itself remains as clear as the day it was first taken.  
  
Zacharias stares into the emerald green eyes, full of the same secrets as the bashful smile that flutters at the corner of her soft mouth. She watches him from beneath full lashes as he slowly pulls out the crystal stopper, breathing in those first intoxicating vapours, and lifts the vial to his parched and expectant lips.

* * *

  
  
_Zacharias is unsure exactly when it was that he surrendered all semblance of self-respect.  
  
In all honesty, he’s surprised he hasn’t been arrested yet, skulking here in a darkened shop doorway, face shrouded by a dense cloud of cigarette smoke, his eyes never leaving the windows of the third floor flat across the street. This is a nice neighbourhood, after all.  
  
She has completely cut herself off from him. She’s refusing to take his floo calls, she won’t answer his owls- sweet Circe, she’s even changed the wards around her flat so that he can’t just ring the fucking doorbell. Call it vanity, call it paranoia –Zacharias likes to think of it as a healthy dose of self-interest- but he’d rather like to know why.  
  
He’s heard the rumours, of course, hasn’t everyone? But that’s not enough. He can’t just throw his life away, or what’s left of it at least, on the tittle-tatter of filthy gossip. He wants to be sure, wants to see it for himself- only then will he finally accept it.  
  
He knows he won’t blame her, even if it is true. How can he, when she’s so beautifully naïve? She probably thinks she’s being heroic, sullying her name, her reputation for the sly bastard. She’ll call it true love, fate - probably thinks they’re star-crossed lovers or some such shite, that she can be his ‘redemption’. She can’t help it though, he knows that – she just gets so easily swept up in the thrill of it all, the rush of endorphins. Hadn’t she even managed to convince herself she was in love with _ him _, once upon a time?  
  
The lights in the flat begin to flicker off one by one and Zacharias stiffens, ditching the cigarette stub and pressing himself further into the shadows. He watches as the front door opens, a small, slender figure stepping out into the night, waves of ebony curls hanging low around her face. Astoria glances quickly along the street and, even from this distance, he can see the tight set of her mouth, the uneasiness in her face and he knows that she is nervous, or guilty- or both.  
  
But then the moment is gone, as she looks down and hurries away, disappearing in and out of view as she passes under each over-hanging street lamp.  
  
Zacharias feels his stomach churn, already fearing the worst, but darts after her. He is careful to keep to the other side of the street, always lagging just slightly behind and out of sight should she suddenly turn or check over her shoulder. She turns down a side-street and he follows, skirting the shadows’ edge as he listens for the soft click of each of her short, quick steps. She doesn’t slow her pace once, dipping under a low-hanging arch and up a short flight of steps, swerving down this passage and the next until Zacharias has lost all sense of direction.  
  
He pauses for the briefest moment, glancing up at the names inscribed above shop doorways to try and establish their whereabouts and in those few seconds he loses sight of her.  
And when he finds her again, she is not alone.  
  
He would have walked straight past this particular alleyway if he hadn’t heard her gasp. It is much darker here, a dead-end, leading nowhere and partially hidden from view by stacks of empty crates from the shop across the street.  
  
He stops, panicked, and is about to light his wand when he hears her gasp again… followed quickly by a deep and unburdened moan.  
  
Zacharias feels his blood run cold.  
  
There is shuffling, the scrape of a shoe against brick and then another breathy, little whimper. Zacharias remains rooted to the spot, struggling to make out much more over the deafening pulse that’s begun to throb in both his ears. If he isn’t very much mistaken, his fiancé, his sweetheart – the love of his life is getting the fuck of hers, just three feet away from where he stands.  
  
The rising wave of nausea is overwhelming, but Zacharias simply stares straight ahead into the dark, his eyes glazed and unseeing. He must remind himself, half-heartedly, to keep breathing. And then, without instruction, he feels his feet move forward, shifting silently around the empty barrels for a better view.  
  
He supposes it’s twisted, maybe even a little sick, but he wants to see -has to see, in fact- although he has no idea why. Morbid curiosity, perhaps, or maybe he’s just a glutton for punishment.  
  
His eyes land on her throat first and travel up the exposed curve of the creamy white skin before devouring her face, which is frozen in an expression of pure ecstasy. Her lips are swollen and parted, the very tip of her plump, pink tongue pinched between pearly teeth. A deep flush soaks her cheeks, neck shining with sweat, damp black ringlets quivering with each languid tip of her head. And she is writhing, jerking against the wall, alternately letting out whimpers and sucking sharply on her lower lip, eyes squeezed tightly shut.  
  
If he wasn’t experiencing complete and utter emotional devastation, Zacharias reckons he could have come just by looking at her.  
  
For a brief and moronic second, he imagines that she is alone. But then he follows the path of her slender fingers, which slide down over her stomach and crumpled skirt to pull at platinum blonde hair. He doesn’t need to see the face, buried at the apex of his fiancé’s thighs, to know to whom Astoria, quite literally, owes the pleasure.  
  
The ache in his gut gets the better of him then and he staggers back from the scene- he has had his wretched fill. His knuckles scrape against stonework as he slumps against the side of a nearby building, his heart thundering mercilessly in his mouth, his head reeling with a sudden thirst for blood. Someone has taken hold of his ribs and is ripping him apart from the inside out, slowly tearing him limb from limb -lungs from liver- only to poke fun at his anguished innards. His vision is collapsing, the world exploding with it and in that moment, as his strangled sobs are drowned out by Astoria’s desperate cries of climax, Zacharias is certain that he has never, and never will again feel any other kind of pain than this._

* * *

  
  
The bitter liquid slides down easily, barely thicker than water, faintly stinging his tongue and the back of his throat.  
  
At first, he experiences a bizarre moment of peace – the deed has been done, his future is out of his hands – before an eerie chill settles over him, creeping down his neck and arms and rippling out across his chest as the potion pools heavily in his stomach. Resting a hand against his ribs, he feels his pulse begin to flutter uncertainly beneath his fingertips, until a sudden wave of dizziness overcomes him and he must grip the bed post for support. This elixir is fast working, no time to find an antidote even if he wanted to.  
  
At the first cramping of his chest, Zacharias sinks back against the rotting mattress, the vial slipping from his grasp to smash against the floor, sending a hundred tiny shards of glass scattering across the wooden boards. A loud, sharp ringing has begun to sound in both his ears: the strain of his failing heart trying to maintain steady blood flow to his head and his vision swims – the solitary light bulb above him blurring in and out of focus like some hypnotic mirage.  
  
He does not know if this is the end or just a new beginning. But as his lungs plead for air, pupils dilating as his limp body is gripped by a powerful seizure, he is not sure if he really cares either way.  
  
He will be free of her soon.

* * *

  
  
_The Three Broomsticks is busy. Despite the canvas of icy rain outside, the air in here is hot and stuffy, stale with the smell of spilt Butterbeer and pipe smoke. Zacharias sits in a dark corner, nursing an empty glass and a split lip. The purple ring around his right eye is already beginning to blacken and he winces, shifting in his seat as he drags a scraped hand through long, matted locks.  
  
He barely glances up as Ernie Macmillan sits another tumbler of whisky down in front of him, sliding into the vacant chair and surveying him seriously across the table. Zacharias grabs for the drink, eager to wash the taste of iron from his mouth, grimacing as it stings his wounds.  
  
“I’m not doing this again,” Ernie mutters, sipping his own glass of the strong coppery liquid and shaking his head.  
  
Zacharias shrugs dismissively. “No one asked you to do it at all.”  
  
“You’re my friend. I was hardly about to let you spend the night behind bars on some piss-stained mattress.”  
  
Zacharias knocks the rest of his drink back in one, aggressive gulp. “Didn’t know we still took Hufflepuff values so seriously these days. How much do I owe you?”  
  
Ernie sighs, wearily. “Just for tonight, or should I be keeping a tab?”  
  
“Don’t be a prick, Macmillan.”  
  
For a man recently bailed out of jail for the second time in as many weeks, Zacharias knows he is behaving remarkably ungratefully. But then again, he reasons, any man who had just started a brawl only to get the shit kicked out of him would probably feel equally embittered.  
  
Ernie lets that last jibe slide, although his jaw tenses, as he looks out over the crowded pub.  
Zacharias knows that he is exasperated with him, finally at the end of his ridiculously generous tether and that he should be careful. Ernie is the last of his so-called ‘friends’ to still give a damn whether he destroys himself or not. After him, there is no one left.  
  
“I know you’ve had a rough few months-,” Ernie starts, only for Zacharias to sneer into his now empty glass. “Fuck’s sake, Smith, I’m trying to be concerned. The least you could do is pretend to care. I mean, look at yourself.”  
  
Zacharias doesn’t need to check his reflection to know that he must look grotesque- all bashed up, bruised and swollen. He also doesn’t need Ernie ‘Golden Boy’ Macmillan to tell him that seeking out fights with Aurors twice his size isn’t a healthy way of dealing with his issues. He knows he’s lost it, he knows he’s on a destructive path to physical annihilation, and he knows- not that he intends to tell his friend this- that he’s heading straight over to the Hog’s Head to try and score a narcotic potion or two, once Ernie leaves him the Hell alone.  
  
Zacharias wipes a streak of dried blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “Did you read the papers today?”  
  
Ernie seems to have been waiting for this and pauses, nodding slowly. “Yes, I did. Which is why I’m buying you drinks instead of beating you up again, myself.”  
  
Zacharias cannot resist a sardonic chuckle. “Tell me something, Ern’. If a girl refuses to marry you, but then happily ties the knot with the Death Eater scum she fucked you over for- is that something one should take personally?”  
  
Ernie offers him a pitying look. Zacharias finds he wants to knock it right off his face.  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say, mate.”  
  
“No one ever does,” he mutters, darkly. “Thanks for the drink.”  
  
He staggers up, a little worse for wear from the whisky and a blow too many to the head, and begins to push his way through the crowds. His appearance here this evening hasn’t gone unnoticed and the eyes and whispers follow him across the room. He’s not surprised though, and he knows it’s not just because he’s got a face like the wife of a bad-tempered sailor. Half the punters here tonight are Hogwarts alumni. They’ll have read the announcements in The Daily Prophet, they’ll know the whole sordid story by now and he has no doubt they’ll get a good few minutes of gossip at his expense after this.  
  
He’s already halfway out the door when Ernie catches up with him, having hastily tossed a handful of galleons across the bar to settle Zacharias’ tab.  
  
“Smith, come on, so you put your faith in the wrong woman.”  
  
Zacharias grits his teeth as he steps out into the rain, extracting his last cigarette from the silver case in his top pocket. “Go home to your wife, Macmillan.”  
  
“But there’s nothing you could’ve done!” Ernie ignores him. “Slytherins have scheming in their blood, you know that. Get two of them together and the whole sodding house of cards comes down.”  
  
“Leave it alone, Ernie.” The smoke burns Zacharias’ throat like sandpaper and he feels his lungs sigh in sweet relief.  
  
“I mean, can’t you see what she’s done to you? What she’s made you become?” Ernie ploughs on, desperately. “I’m sick of watching you self-loathe yourself to death, destroying everything you’ve earned for a girl who’s given you nothing but misery in return.”  
  
“I said hold your tongue-,”  
  
“Carry on like this and sooner or later you’re going to get yourself killed! And the worst part is, I don’t think you even give a shit, because you’re still infatuated with the stupid bint-,”  
  
He’s swung for him before he even realises what he’s doing. Ernie’s eyes flash, startled, as five knuckles deliver a solid right hook beneath the jaw. Zacharias grabs the other man by the robes and swings again, landing another hit to the soft flesh of his stomach. Ernie stumbles backwards, wheezing, collapsing onto the cobbles, spitting red from his mouth. And suddenly there’s a wand at his neck, pressed firmly against his pulse.  
  
“Don’t you _ ever _-” Zacharias is visibly trembling with rage, “-speak about Astoria like that again.”  
  
Ernie stares up at him, totally bewildered and utterly frantic. “Y-you’re mad, you’re totally fucking crazy, Smith.”  
  
A hundred vicious hexes race to Zacharias’ mind, few of them legal, but he manages to exercise the scrap of restraint he has left and withdraws his wand.  
  
“Go home to your wife,” he says again and this time Ernie listens.  
  
Zacharias remains perfectly still for a moment, the icy rain trickling sluggishly down the nape of his neck as he allows one final bridge to burn to cinders at his feet. And as he turns to continue on, he finds, to his dismay, that his last cigarette has been discarded to the depths of a murky puddle.  
  
He has truly lost everything now. _

 

* * *

* * *

  
  
The young man sits in the sunshine at a canal-side café, watching the world go by with a lazy smile.  
  
These are the days he relishes the most. The days when he can be content with his blank and easy lot – no constraints, no ties, no-one to tell him who he is and where he should be in this world. A blissfully ignorant summer’s day.  
  
In truth, his smile widens, days like this seem to come around very often now.  
  
As he rises from the table, digging into his pocket for enough lira to settle his bill, he catches sight of a pretty young woman across the water. She is, in a word, _mozzafiato_. An English rose, or so he would guess from her complexion – too delicate to be a native of the Italian sun. Dark hair falls in thick waves over bare and petite shoulders as she stoops to survey a street-side flower stall, emerald green eyes alighting at the colourful display of floral blooms.  
  
She turns then to find him watching and suddenly, it is as though she has seen a ghost, her cheeks paling as she returns his stare with an unrecognisable emotion, unblinking and astonished by the very sight of him.  
  
He glances over his shoulder, searching for the cause of her obvious distress but there is nothing and no-one else but him. Baffled, he looks back across the water, only to find that she has turned on her heel and fled, long hair whipped by the breeze as she runs across the plaza, starlings and tourists scattering from her path.  
  
The young man is stunned. Not only is the girl obviously insane but she also just might be the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes on. And so, after a fleeting moment of hesitation, he tosses a handful of coins on the café table and takes after her.  
  
This fool is in love again.


End file.
